


think I fell too deep (and it hurts so hard)

by completist



Category: DCU, Justice League & Justice League Unlimited (Cartoons), Justice League - All Media Types
Genre: A Journey, Angst, Angst and Porn, Background Case, Bottom Bruce Wayne, Bottom Clark Kent, Canon Major Character Death, Canon-Typical Violence, Confrontations, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Guilt, Hopeful Ending, Justice Lords Universe, M/M, Regret, Superbat Reverse Bang, lol coz like that wasn't an abrupt 180deg turn y'kno, mentions of sex-related drugs, of how they turned into justice lords, pre-justice lords episode, pre-world domination in the justice lords timeline, this is more like
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:49:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24753466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/completist/pseuds/completist
Summary: The Flash is dead and the Justice League scrambles to pick up the pieces after him. Except they didn't, the crippling weight of grief causing them to rush into situations Batman could barely see them getting out of.[a Justice Lords fic centered around Bruce and Clark's relationship, and the strain Superman's actions have put into it ever since the Flash's death]
Relationships: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 8
Kudos: 50
Collections: Superbat Reverse Bang 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Afraid of the Dark](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24765124) by [AriesNoHope](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AriesNoHope/pseuds/AriesNoHope). 



> aaaa much love and much thanks to [knoxoursavior](https://archiveofourown.org/users/knoxoursavior) for listening to me rant, and enduring the tedious process of editing this fic! thank u ms ma'am!
> 
> Thank you so sooo much as well for Aries' [wonderful art](https://ariesnohope.tumblr.com/post/621164968807677952/afraid-of-the-dark-before-the-justice-lords-meet) that inspired this fic! I didn't know writing a Justice Lords fic could be this fun and angsty and aaaaa its all thanks to ur art, Aries! I'm glad we got to be partners for this bang! 
> 
> Huge thanks as well to the great, and patient people at this year's SRB Mod Squad! You guys rock!!!
> 
> One last thing before diving into this fic! It mentions a drug that is similar to date-rape drugs, nothing too graphic but I just want to warn that its effects are kind of heavily discussed in this fic (i.e. the metahumans losing control of their faculties, heightened libido—which could potentially harm civilians and themselves).
> 
> This fic is also a mesh of all Justice League iterations lol, like yes, I'm well aware that its Wally who d-worded in the Justice Lords episode, but like I've also included Barry here. And a lot of other JL members like Hal and Arthur. The batkids are also here! Like all of them (I think, lol)
> 
> Thank you so much for enduring this long note! and I hope u enjoy reading!

**_January 6, 20xx_ **

**Six months after the Flash’s death**

Bruce knows it will come to this.

The newspaper sits folded in front of him, placed closer to him than his coffee; courtesy of Alfred, of course. It’s how he shows the tiniest disappointment he still feels these days, despite agreeing that the League’s— _no, the_ _Lords’_ —current actions are for the best given the circumstances. Bruce refuses to unfold the newspaper, waiting until Alfred has left the veranda on the east side of the manor he is taking his breakfast at. The sway of the trees below, the flowers blooming on the potted plants around him, the gentle touch of the morning sun on his skin all feels mocking instead of injecting life to his veins.

Sugar in his black coffee seems pretty tempting right now.

Closing his eyes for a moment, he heaves a deep sigh then opens them. He pulls the coffee close to him and turns the newspaper facedown, trying to move the headline from the forefront to the darkest pits of his mind where he tries to keep all of his regrets caged in.

**_Justice Lords cleanses Japan of the Yakuza_ **

_ The Justice Lords once again showed the world the extent of what they are willing to do... _

_ … to uphold peace... _

_ …arrests more than 600 people in one night... _

_ … According to a statement released early this morning… _

_ …warns criminals and those who will attempt to do evil... _

_...the Justice Lords will show no mercy. _

Bruce knows it will come to this, but the absolute feeling of powerlessness crippling his muscles and down to his bones in the dead of the night still haunts him even when the sun has peaked over the horizon. He tears his gaze away from the table and into the crawling expanse of the manor, to the vast sky above the trees.

His phone lights up, signaling a call. He ignores it, removes the earpiece he’s been wearing for three days straight and tries to force calmness to seep through him—through his muscles, and deep into his bones, and maybe into the empty chambers of his heart.

He fails.

Clark’s touches feel as hurried as the first time, making Bruce wonder if he still feels like he needs to hurry back to Metropolis like before. Hurry back to the  _ Daily Planet _ office, hurry back to Lois Lane who expects him to always be at the ready by his table.

He wonders if Clark thinks everything is still the same—even when Lois openly hated what he now stands for, constantly ostracized him from his own home as Superman. And perhaps soon as Clark Kent. Or if he still thinks everything is the same back at the  _ Planet _ —when his hero identity has greatly changed from what it used to stand for—and his co-workers can barely look him in the eye, whenever news about Superman and the now Justice Lords arise, knowing how much he stood for these heroes as Clark Kent.

Sometimes, Bruce wonders if the Lords deserve the hate simmering beneath the cities they protect, blanketed by the darkness of the night when people have tucked themselves into their beds; unknowing of what the Lords would do, wondering themselves if they are still safe despite the constant reminder that the Lords will protect them.

Wondering to what extent the Justice Lords are willing to go in order to protect the planet and its citizens.

Sometimes, Bruce doesn’t have to wonder; the small voice at the back of his mind earning the courage to raise its volume and blatantly agree:  _ yes, they deserve it. _

Nights like this, Clark shows up. Either bothered by the same thing or somehow, feeling the uneasiness growing within the cage of Bruce’s heart. They don’t talk about themselves, about their actions and its consequences, they rarely do these days. They rarely take the time to contemplate the implications of their actions these days. Bruce would look at Clark and just  _ know.  _ Whether that’s a good thing or not… Bruce feels like he doesn’t have the energy to examine it.

Not when he still has a lot of planning to do. Unearthing more and more secrets of the underground, planning, putting the limelight on the greed hiding in the shadows; planning, mobilizing the Lords, immobilizing evil.

Clark lets out a loud moan above him, grinding his hips and clenching his ass around Bruce’s cock buried deep inside him. With his eyes closed, Clark searches for his hands with his own; and Bruce seeks him out in return, placing Clark’s right over his heart and holding on to the other as he fucks him. Hard, fast; the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing in the bedroom. And Bruce wishes that the blatant, dirty sounds of sex were loud enough to chase the voice of his doubts down the cold, empty halls of the manor.

He flips their position, pinning Clark on the bed with a hand on his wrists raised above his head. The bedside table trembles, their phones and Clark’s glasses teetering to fall onto the plush carpet littered with haphazardly thrown clothes. “Hm. Are you gonna come for me, Clark?” He gives a frantic nod, wrapping his legs around Bruce’s waist as he moans through each frantic thrust, gasps of Bruce’s name falling from his lips as he holds onto Bruce’s shoulders, pulling him down to hide his face against the crook of his neck. 

The cold evening breeze blows through the open windows, lifting the curtains just enough to let a sliver of moonlight in. Bruce pulls roughly at Clark’s hair as they both come at the same time; he sucks roughly at the exposed column of Clark’s neck, making him moan louder, shivers wracking through his body. 

Slowly, Bruce eases his grip and caresses Clark’s cheeks instead, brushing back the curls sticking onto his forehead. Softly, he presses a kiss on his parted lips before easing off of him, ignoring the sticky feeling of sweat and cum between their bodies.

“Bruce,” Clark whispers, eyes barely open; he’s reaching a hand out, legs still spread open. Bruce lets his eyes roam, noticing the trembling in his thighs, the wet streak of cum on his chest and stomach, his still half-hard cock glinting with pre-cum, and Bruce accepts the hand offered to him; kissing the center of his palm and each fingertip—worships the hand that has, for so long, kept saving the world.

“What is it, Clark?”

“What’s bothering you?” Bruce closes his eyes at the question—or maybe at what he sees in Clark’s eyes, the look he’s giving him, at the glow of moonlight reflected on those stunning blue eyes. 

Shivering as the cool breeze of the night air touches his skin, Bruce replies, “Nothing.”

Superman’s—no, Clark’s barefooted steps seem to echo in the cave.

Bruce sits straighter, still furiously clicking away on the keyboard in front of him. The light emitted by the monitors is the only bright thing in the cave, illuminating the central bank of computers, the discarded and unused kevlar suit by the floor, and Bruce’s naked and scarred body.

"Can't sleep?"

A nod, and Clark steps even closer. Hovering, Bruce guesses, the reflection of his face on the monitor before them curious. He lets his eyes roam his features—eyes, nose, those lips he kissed moments earlier. The marks he left now completely healed. “Bane has stopped moving, the last known location of the cargo is in Kazakhstan.”

And now Clark moves in front of him as if he’s going to sit next to his typing hands, as if every single utterance Clark hears from him equates to being permitted to be close, closer still as their gazes meet. Five, seven years ago and they wouldn’t even dare to breathe the same air of a shared city. And yet now—Clark hovers idly between them, comfortable, trusting, covered only by a thin, white sheet that makes his tanned skin glow; the broadness of his shoulders evident, his thighs bare and so achingly  _ near  _ that Bruce can feel the heat coming off of him tickling along his arms.

“Do you want me to go?”

“No,” came the quick reply. And it wasn’t even sharp, wasn’t even spoken as if Bruce resents the fact that  _ Clark is offering to help him.  _ No, that would be some time ago, years from where they are now _.  _ But it’s been longer than that since his confusion has turned him soft.

“It’s too dangerous.”

**_March 13, 20xx_ **

**Eight months after the Flash’s death**

Alfred stands behind him, quietly assessing as he observes his reflection in the mirror.

“Is everything to your liking, sir?” 

He nods, angling his head from left to right. The new tailored suit fits perfectly, the kevlar lining comfortable, and the new haircut complements the whole look well. Running his hands over the fake facial hair, Bruce meets his own gaze through the mirror, the contact lenses obscuring the brown of his eyes feels more comfortable now, even with the embedded tech. He turns to the butler stoically observing him. “Yes, Alfred. Thank you.”

“Master Bruce—”

A concealed sigh, “It’s fine.”

Bruce turns back to the mirror, checking the fit of the watch on his wrist to avoid Alfred’s piercing gaze. He understands, he thinks, somewhat. Fully aware of the fact that if it was Dick doing this, he’d feel the same apprehension, and would air the same justified grievances. Still, he says, “This isn’t any different than all the nights I go out there, Alfred.”

Heaving a deep sigh, Alfred tucks his hands behind his back, “Oh, but it is, sir. I’m afraid it hasn’t been the same in a long, long time.” Bruce lifts his gaze to him, jaw clenched as he endures the force of regret trying to escape its cage within. A minute passes. Two. A message through the comms stating that Clark has arrived at the venue of a business the Lords are taking care of miles away from where he is going to be at.

Slowly, Alfred sighs as he extends his hand. “Here. If you’ll allow me, sir?”

A minute nod, and then Alfred is stepping towards him. “The kevlar lining will protect you the same way as the other suit does. Here, in your tie pin is a microphone and the camera in your contact lenses will provide visuals.”

“I promise I won’t look at anything lewd.”

A sigh, but a lighter one this time, and a small quirk of lips. One that effectively dispels the heavy air of doubt and worry around them earlier. “I doubt there’s anything lewd to look at judging by where you are going. Besides, you never keep that promise. And while I still don’t agree with the fact that you’re not carrying other weapons, I do believe in your strength.”

“You’re going to keep watch.”

“For the longest time, you’ve relied on your strength, sir. Do not get caught.” Alfred pats him on the shoulder before stepping back to tap on the mirror before them. The implications of how everything will blow out of indefinite proportions if this mission reveals his identity considering the current climate on metahumans remaining unsaid between them. Details of the operation pops up on the table to their right, surveillance on the cameras showing the warehouse is still empty. “The channels on your comms will primarily include the connection to the cave, the Watchtower will come second since they can easily respond as backup. Master Clark is on a separate mission, correct?”

Bruce nods along, allowing Alfred’s commentary to refresh his mind with the plan, all the while being fully aware of the worry this operation is placing over his guardian. And Bruce wonders again if all of this is worth it. Worth the doubt, and the possible regret. Worth the even more sleepless nights, and broken bones, and stitches. Worth all of his blood drying and seeping into the ground.

“Sir,” Alfred extends his wallet to him, “I also took the liberty of placing a tracking system on every card and bill on this wallet. Just in case they think about robbing you.”

With a chuckle, Bruce accepts the wallet and places it in his pocket. “Thank you, Alfred.”

“Of course, Master Bruce.”

Dusty yet crowded. He shouldn’t have expected anything less.

Bruce walks into the warehouse, the intermingling smell of rich colognes and tobacco emitting from the rich men whose feet are all buried in the black market assaults his senses. A quick scan of the area shows an exit for the traders at their back—a quick run, should things go awry—and only one exit for the customers, the same one they went into. For Bruce, it’s three.

The windows above them let some sliver of moonlight in. And unlike the other men around him, Bruce slips his glasses off, tucking it on his collar before loosening a button. The fluorescent light above them fizzles before stabilizing into an ugly, yellow-orange glow. He excuses himself and slips through to stand in the middle of the crowd, allowing the criminal masterminds and their bodyguards to hide him. 

A man wearing an ill-fitting suit, his gun tucked on his belt and shown for all to see, a shit-eating grin overcoming his features—like he knows something the people before him don’t, steps in front. Bane slouches with his chin perched on the back of his hand a few meters behind. A power play.

Bruce tucks his hands into his pockets.

_ “That’s Diogo Morales, logistics expert of the cartel running through Guatemala,”  _ Alfred supplies as Bruce scrutinizes the man in question.  _ “Apparently, he has a good aim.” _

“Gentlemen, the crates in front of you contain the drugs you all have heard about,” A scarred hand gestures, almost as wild as his eyes, “Capable of taking down anyone, including Superman.”

All it earns from Bruce are raised eyebrows, enough of a reaction; as long as he reacts and keeps up the act. The murmurs around him ascend until one question cuts through. 

“That’s not enough! Tell us more.”

Bane straightens from his seat at the back, a new scar on his right arm catching the light. “You don’t need to know anything else.”

“Then you don’t need any money from us.”

That’s not true; Bruce has been aware of it the moment he walked inside the warehouse and saw all the big and loaded names of the underground. Bane needs the funding—either to reproduce this drug or fund a bigger project. And yet, he dared invite all these men here, fully aware that everyone is capable of stealing all of it without leaving a single cent behind. He must be confident enough that he won’t be taken down. That, or there’s nothing for shit hidden inside those crates.

_ “Must be a fake in there,”  _ Alfred says through the comms.  _ “Or worse.” _

_ Probably worse,  _ Bruce thinks. 

Morales grins, all bared teeth and looking more like a grimace. “Sir, I think you’ll find this most useful in these trying times.”

Silence. Bane shifts back to his slouching position. The tension among the audience slowly unravels, and Bruce can practically feel the greed now being blatantly put at full display.

“Very well then.” Morales pulls a key from the left pocket of his pants and throws it to another henchman who unlocks the crates. “Let’s start the bidding at four hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

Another silence envelops the crowd as the drugs are shown, packed in transparent bags—looking like half a kilo each—and giving off a faint, green glow. The interior of the crate is dark—probably lead lining, the radioactive power of the Kryptonite mixed into it must have been taken into consideration. No wonder it can affect Superman. 

To an average human, ingesting Kryptonite is, of course, out of the picture. Radiation poisoning is dangerous, even in small amounts, and Bruce has long suspected that Luthor probably would’ve died due to cancer from constant exposure to kryptonite radiation coming off of his ring. 

To an average superhuman, however, kryptonite running through their veins may still have adverse effects, especially since the origin of most superhuman powers is untraceable at best, and drawing optimistic hypotheses on improvements in physical strength might cause harm even when considering how it weakens the physical strength of Kryptonians upon exposure. 

And it's being marketed as a lethal weapon capable of taking down metahumans; Bruce suspects the addition of Kryptonite is what it truly is: added for the sake of Superman.

It was foolish to think he and Clark have rounded up all kryptonite on the planet. He will have to talk to Clark about the necessity of back-up plans once again.

A hand decorated with heavily jaded rings shoots up. “Six hundred thousand!”

“Seven hundred thousand!”

“Eight hundred and fifty thousand!”

Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose, whispering, “I need to get all of those.”

_ “Of course you do, sir.”  _ Alfred sighs.  _ “You could always waste your money to get it, anyway.” _

“It’s not like I really need to pay,” Bruce replies, then raises his hand. “One point two million dollars.” He suppresses a smirk when Bane ever so slightly straightens in his seat.

Another blanket of silence envelops the crowd. They’re probably calculating the merits of letting the drug go to one man and buy enough quantities on the street to reproduce it on their own. Except that reproduction might be difficult due to the presence of kryptonite. Replicating several properties of it, however, would be enough; especially if said properties can still take down the majority of superhuman society. After all, it’s not like Superman can respond to all cries for help, nor can he—at this given moment—cease all illegal movements, particularly in the underground. Bruce stares at the pounds upon pounds of drugs in front of him. He needs to know what it contains and how it can take down metahumans. 

“One point two million dollars. Going once, going twice—”

“—One point  _ five  _ million dollars.”

Bruce sighs.

Unease begins to creep into the crowd. One point five million dollars is a bit too much for a drug whose effectiveness is not even proven yet. Bruce reads the crowd again; he could have easily slipped as one of the bodyguards and linger until he could get his hands on the crate. But he gave his anonymity up when he spoke his bid. The drug is in front of him—fake or not, he’s been waiting for this opportunity for a long,  _ long  _ time.

_ “Slow down, taking down these men will not be an easy feat.” _

No. No, it won’t be.

The fight erupts in a blink of an eye and Bruce does not hesitate to join in the fray. Making sure the target is still in his sight. Another moment passed and Bane joined the crowd of men fighting. Gunshots ring into the air as Morales draws his gun out. And he’s not shooting haphazardly either. Every bullet that rings through buries itself into its target.

Bruce’s gaze darts across the room: Bane is on the other side of the room—slamming other brutes to the ground, Morales is still at the front—using the podium to hide from others who drew out guns; his gaze falls to the crates as he dodges a punch and retaliates with his own. Slowly, he makes his way closer. One man down after another, he steps closer to the crates.

“Sir, kindly take a step back.”

_ “Sir, the plane is ready to intercept.” _

Clark softly lands on the balcony of his bedroom the following morning.

He was freshly bandaged, the ones on his ribs inhibiting most of his movements; his knuckles feel raw and the skin is definitely showing it—red and angry, pain striking at even the tiniest movement. Refusing to meet Clark’s gaze, he lies on the bed, on top of the covers, and weirdly enough, basks in the sunlight.

He hears the soft rustling of cloth before he feels it. Clark's cape, his tired and sluggish mind belatedly thinks. A pair of warm arms snake around his body and carefully lifts him until his head hits the pillow. A soft kiss on his forehead, and the slow, careful glide of fingertips on every new injury he has sustained.

The drug is safely hidden in the cave below, tests already running to identify every single property. "Clark."

"Bruce," A whispered voice replies. "Do you want me to close the curtains?" 

A hum. Then a quick shift in the air before the space on the bed to his left dips again. 

"Don't go in the cave."

"What, why?"

"Don't look either, you won't see anything."

"Okay, Bruce," Clark says, tucking Bruce against him. "I trust you."

Bruce's mind suddenly wakes up even as he pretends to be asleep. Clark trusts him, irrevocably it seems. He trusts Bruce in the battlefield, in the safety of his bedroom; trusts Bruce to hold him and keep him safe; trusts him to dearly hold the heart he so openly gives to the world.

The way Clark holds him is gentle, soft in a way a hand capable of destroying the world should not have any right to be. Beside him, Clark's breaths even out as he falls asleep, the warmth emanating from him seeping through the cape and into Bruce's tired muscles. He sneaks a peek, sees Clark's relaxed features, lips slightly pouted and his dark curls splayed on the white pillows. And he's naked, Bruce realizes. Closing his eyes, he wills his mind to stop thinking, stop worrying—if only to stop the sudden erratic beating of his heart that he's sure will wake Clark up.

As exhaustion consumes him, Bruce wishes he could trust the decision Clark made eight months ago with the same amount of trust Clark has decided to place on him.

The rest of the Lords are already seated as Lord Batman walks in, pulling stacked crates along behind him. Creaking sounds of wood against metal disrupting the idle chatter of the… heroes. He leaves them to the side of the conference room like some weird elephant in the room and proceeds to take his seat. 

He conceals his sigh at Clark’s scrutinizing gaze at him as he sits, and then to the now lead-lined crates.

Diana however, openly stares at him. And asks with interest she always reserves to Bruce's quirks. “What did you bring with you, Bruce?”

“Drugs."

Silence envelops the room, and Bruce sees Hal turn to his right as if to make a whispered comment. Only to be met with an empty seat. Diana averts her gaze, while J'onn raises a hand towards Hal as if to comfort him, but decides not to.

Like how communication comes easily to them in the battlefield, they all decided to act as if nothing happened.

"Drugs?" J'onn prompts, interested. Bruce sees John give an intrigued look towards the crates.

“You’ve already examined it,” John states, and Shayera turns to give him an imploring look. Bruce could very well be hiding a lot of things from them. They are all aware of that. The flash of suspicion in Shayera’s eyes doesn’t escape him.

"I've had intel that Bane is slowly moving cargo to Gotham. Personally guarded by him," Bruce begins as information appears on the screen behind him—maps, information on each stop, and corresponding surveillance photos showing that indeed, Bane is personally guarding the cargo—turning the majority of the Lords' attention to it. Except for Clark's. He must have remembered. All those nights ago. "It docked on Gotham's port one morning two weeks ago and was auctioned off on the same night."

Arthur leans forward, "Are you talking about that huge explosion in one of the warehouses in the East Gotham Port?"

Turning his gaze to the king, Bruce realizes that he's actually weighing the impact of his answer even if it wouldn't change. The way he works has always been dangerous. _ This  _ line of work has always been dangerous, especially for him. He knows that. He knows it on an entirely different level than any of them. He knows it in each scar littering his body, knows it through each bandage wrapped around him with blood seeping through, knows it by the tense line of Alfred's shoulders whenever he returns with his blood steadily staining his suit. He knows the grief as much as he knows the danger that has made its home in the same space he occupies. He knows it reflected on the glass cases at the cave, knows it every time he hears that laughter—mocking him, teasing him for not being strong enough despite having the guts and pride to stand among these gods and goddesses. 

And they know it too, these gods and goddesses. They know it through the sudden absence of vibrating energy occupying one of these seats. They know. How easily one can lose their life in this. They know through the absence of companionship and camaraderie so easily offered and standing so strong as though nothing can take it down. They know the grief, know it through the absolute absence of a man who may have gotten lost before but always managed to return. Except he no longer can’t. There’s no returning now for Wally, or Barry and the ones he left behind couldn’t help but scramble at their wakes to do everything in their power to stop the same thing from happening ever again.

But Bruce knows that this wouldn't change his answer, that this grief will not change how he works. This world is dangerous for him; he accepts that, works through it. There have been setbacks, a lot of prices paid, and several bridges burned. But he is here, standing before them, bleeding and grieving. Like they all are. 

"Yes."

Their chairs don’t even creak against the floor so much as they crash onto it. Bruce levels his gaze at them—at Clark's incredulous gaze, Diana's look of concern bordering on anger, and Jordan's clenched jaw and gritting teeth, loud in the otherwise silent room.

"I'm glad you're safe, Bruce," J'onn says, calm and collected, his eyes knowing as their gazes meet. Their gazes break with a small nod and he turns to Arthur's calculating look, consciously putting the other three as last, and counts it as a win when Arthur leans back against his seat.

"You're always like this," Arthur speaks as though he acknowledges that it won't change. "There must be a good reason for it."

"There is."

"I doubt it." Jordan interrupts through gritted teeth.

He sees Clark stand taller at the question of Bruce's integrity and reasoning. Bruce ignores him, sure that they will talk about it later. Diana takes her seat again, shaking her head. "Bruce."

“Do you even care—” Hal stops, glaring daggers at Bruce; and the shift in how they usually act relative to one another is staggering that he couldn’t help but focus all of his attention to Hal. “We’ve already lost him. Your MO—”

“It’s how I worked even before the Flash’s death,” Bruce interrupts, challenging Hal’s glare with his own. “This has got nothing to do with that.”

Hal slams his hand on the table, “Bullshit! We’re just saying that we don’t want to lose you either! We’re not the only ones who care about you, asshole! Look at your children! And Alfred! Heck, even the citizens of Gotham who don't know whether to be scared of you or not probably wouldn’t want to lose you either, and yet look at what you do! Get off your high horse, Wayne, not even your vast fortune can save you from death.”

Clark stiffens. The line of his jaw tensed as he raised his hand, “Hal.” 

Instead of meriting the outburst a reply, Bruce removes his cowl and marches to where the crates are. He refuses to look at their reactions. He  _ knows  _ his vulnerability. He is so  _ achingly  _ aware of it on a nightly basis that every time he comes back to the cave he can’t help but wonder exactly why he is still alive,  _ how  _ he is still alive. But  _ they  _ should know too that it never once stopped him. 

He brings one of the crates to the table. Allows it to fall with a loud, solid  _ bang! _ that he’s sure will leave scratches on the pristine metallic gloss of the holographic table. He throws with enough force to draw attention to it, but not enough to break the technology embedded on the conference table that has witnessed so many similar arguments before. The contents spill, and maybe he’s being dramatic and petty but he’s been working so  _ damn hard  _ these past few months to keep all of them safe. After what happened, he's just trying to keep  _ all of them safe. _

John points his ring at it, the green glow making his frown more pronounced as the seconds tick by. A couple of minutes passed until John returned to his seat, resting his chin over his crossed fingers, tensed.

The implications of the findings are surreal, a direct attack on the superhuman community. Not only will it harm them, but it will also shame them. Bruce knows. His own findings didn’t make him smile either. Not that many of his findings in the past ever made him.

“Well?” Arthur prompts, eyebrows raised. His posture is nonchalant, almost uncaring, but the tight set of his jaw is a dead giveaway.

Shayera turns to Bruce. “I’m sure you already have as much information as you can get out of this… drug.”

The screen behind him shows all of his findings. Clark, who can take it all in as fast as he wants with that Kryptonian brain of his, sits—more like,  _ slumps— _ back into his seat. “It’s like a date-rape drug.”

“What we have are raw samples, easily weaponized even at your city's local drug dens. They could be turned into smoke grenades, among other things, that could aid in their escape should they encounter any of us. Think of it like magic that attacks a person’s libido, only that it’s strong enough to make Superman lose power and control, and can probably turn him into a rabid dog who needs a lot of fucking or he dies.”

“The kryptonite component can also harm anyone else in the long run,” John adds, glaring at it. “Radiation poisoning.”

“Are there any of these still left on the streets?” Diana glares at the drug splayed in front of them.

“There’s no information yet, but its weight is consistent with all of the monitored cargos,” Bruce answers, taking his seat. “I’ve consulted with Zatanna; it doesn’t have magic.”

“Great,” Hal grimaces. “How do we get rid of it?”

The implication that the non-meta human community has made efforts to produce this kind of weapon does not escape them. The fact that it can also harm civilians more than them is another implication that they no longer have to discuss since it is so apparent they have to get rid of this, not just for their sake but for the whole world’s too.

Bruce kept his eyes trained on the drugs as the discussion dragged on around him. The conversation he had with Alfred on inviting the kids for dinner the previous night taking the spotlight at the forefront of his mind. And until now, Bruce hasn’t sorted out his feelings on the fact that his children might not be too approving of what the Lords are doing. Or that Alfred feels it necessary for them to  _ talk about their feelings _ .

Come to think of it, none of them have been in the manor for quite a while. And it wasn't like there is any other reason to wonder why.

“When we get rid of it, we must ensure that we will be getting rid of it in the long run.” 

A vaccine, Tim would suggest; give it to everyone who goes out to fight crime so they will be protected; make sure they have open communication to anyone who could provide back-up.

“Some drastic measures should ensure this will not happen again.”

Hunt them all down and make a statement, so they won’t do this again. Jason would ensure his lesson will be ingrained to whoever dared to do this. Damian would probably be on board.

“Let’s make sure it’s out of the streets first; we’ll take it from there.”

Dick and Cass would move to make sure it will not see the light of day again or crawl through the streets at night. Steph and Barbara would have a carefully constructed plan once they’ve all done their initial plans. 

"We have to make a stand now! If we don't cut this down to its very roots, it will just sprout again."

"And how do you suggest we do that?" Bruce asks, finally taking his eyes off of the table. He does not know who spoke before him, does not bother to know. He doesn't want the doubt and regrets taking space in his chest and bombarding his mind to have a face.

"We will make sure that this will not happen again," Clark declares, standing at the other end of the table. Bruce does not listen to what they talk about next, his heart pounding. And somehow, he regrets not bringing that new device that could silence his heartbeat with him. The way Clark is looking at him makes him feel bare, vulnerable. Like all his wounds and secrets, all of his doubts and regrets are spilled on the table, under the scrutiny of the same people who are challenging the very principle he's been hanging his cape around.

He met Diana's stoic gaze once and refuses to meet Clark's at all.

His quarters at the Watchtower is cold, impersonal. Like a hotel room. Unfeeling. Cold. Bland. Not that he usually cares. Removing his cape, he allows the heavy material to fall onto the cold floor and sets his cowl on top of the empty bedside table.

A beep announces someone's arrival at his door. Glancing at it, he sighs, already knowing who is standing—maybe floating—outside.

He sets about removing the gauntlet on his left hand as he clicks on the security system by the door, opening it and glancing at Clark's feet then to his clasped hands. Floating. Thumbs meeting and rolling as he stares at it instead of Bruce.

The gauntlet is thrown at the foot of the bed as he turns his back to Clark who follows the silent invitation. He feels warmth seeping into his back even though Clark is still a couple of steps behind him.

"Bruce?"

An answering grunt. The other gauntlet joins its twin. Bruce picks up a tablet from the bedside table before sitting on the edge of the bed.

"Bruce," Clark says again; this time his tone is more sure. "Are you okay?"

"Hrn."

"I see."

There's shuffling behind him, and then the bed dips, Clark's familiar warmth seeping into his back as arms loop around his waist. “Does it bother you?”

“What, your sudden violence?” Clark begins kissing the back of his neck, one hand running along the arm that is holding the tablet in front of him. “Would you like me to remind you where I came from, Smallville?”

And Bruce would have sneered, would have made Clark realize exactly how dumb that question is. Except he doesn’t, and even the usual bite those words would have had isn’t present.

“The rest of the Lords are worried about you,” Clark says, changing the topic as he urges Bruce to lie against his chest as he moves them to the center of the bed. “Of course they know what you’re capable of. But after what happened...”

Clark trails off, giving Bruce the chance to speak. Instead of replying, he throws the tablet back onto the bedside table and turns to face Clark, straddling him. Their lips crash against each other, and Bruce has forgone technique over expressing what he cannot say through his body. He bites, sucks, and nips at Clark’s skin, slapping a hand over Clark’s mouth to muffle his moans as he starts grinding against him.

He turns away at the worry lingering beneath the lust in Clark’s eyes. “Take off your suit, damn it.”

The material folds into itself and then Clark is pinning him onto the bed. Of course he would recognize it in his kiss, in his eyes, in the way his heart  _ beats.  _ Bruce is worried over something, and Clark  _ knows it;  _ knows it like the back of his hand, knows it in the way his feet hit the ground, knows it at each bite of his teeth on his lips and his skin. Knows it in his clipped words, and the way he works to avoid their gazes from meeting. 

Bruce closes his eyes, limiting his senses to feel more of Clark's touches. But Clark's touch feels like an apology; each skim of a finger along his scarred skin, each glide of his lips down the column of his neck, teeth digging into his skin, the hot and firm press of their bodies meeting—blurring the line where the other begins and the other ends. They feel like an apology. An unwanted, unwarranted apology. An apology that shouldn't be given to him.

Muffling the sounds he's making by biting into his arm, Bruce meets Clark's gaze as he grinds their hips together. He lets Clark maneuver his arms around his neck and press their foreheads together, lets him steal his breath with each kiss. Lets Clark devour him with every swipe of his tongue on his rim, every suck of his mouth on his dick. Lets his hands—those same hands capable of dominating the world—hold him down by his hips, pull at his hair, and tighten their hold on his neck as his breathing turns ragged with every kiss and every thrust. 

Later, when Clark is catching the breath he doesn’t even have to take on top of him, Bruce wonders if Clark knows exactly what he is apologizing for.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the 'time tags' on each part here are changed to anticipate and portray the harsher actions the Justice Lords are doing. Also aaaa batkids!!!!

**_May 05, 20xx_ **

**Ninety days before the take-over**

It's been a while since the manor has seen this many people, yet the silence is still as deafening.

Dinner is delicious. As always, Alfred's cooking beats any five-star restaurant Bruce or any of the kids have ever been to. But the only sound during the otherwise loud and rambunctious dinner was the clinking of utensils against one another, the scrape of a spoon on a plate, the slosh of water poured into a glass, Alfred's quiet steps in and out of the kitchen.

Bruce sits at the head of the table, and even if none of his children have addressed him other than the polite greeting of 'good evening' upon arrival, he can feel their tensed and unwavering attention directed mostly to him. He's pretty sure this isn't how Alfred imagined nor intended for this dinner to go.

To his left, Damian sets his utensils down. "Father, is the alien going to join us anytime soon?"

Bruce chews on the food in his mouth, gaze absently trained to the center of the table. Cass gives him an imploring look, silently encouraging him to answer like he would any other night. Jason acts like no question was asked, reaching for the buttered chicken and putting almost half of it onto his plate; Steph glares as she takes the dish from him.

He sees Alfred standing stiff to his right, a couple of steps behind Dick who seems like he couldn't stay still with all his fidgeting and reaching for dishes only to put them back down without getting a portion for himself. Swallowing, he was about to answer when Tim clears his throat and beats him to it.

"According to the news report I've read before arriving here, Superman, Wonder Woman, and Green Lantern are smoothing out nuclear disputes in North Korea, after presiding over the diplomatic talks between China, Taiwan, and Vietnam with Hawkgirl and Martian Manhunter who presumably returned to the Watchtower when the dispute over the islands in the West Philippine Sea was smoothed out."

"Sounds tiring," Jason comments around a mouthful of rice and chicken, at the same time Dick snickers.

"That's Lord and Lady for you, Timmy." Dick smirks, taking a sip of water.

Damian gives an acknowledging grunt, and Duke sends him a look—probably thinking how that is  _ so _ Bruce Wayne of him while expecting him to speak more rather than giving such a vague... response. Bruce tries to conceal his sigh as he mentally prepares himself for the question he’s sure is going to be asked next.

The tension at the farther end of the table is palpable. Thickening even more as Barbara drops all pretenses of enjoying her dinner, probably made for Alfred's sake, and finishes with a long drink; her grip on the glass tight enough for small squeaking sounds to fill the silence. Bruce understands. That is, he himself understands their sentiments. Ask him if he knows why he let these things happen though, and he probably will not be able to give you an answer aside from momentarily stopping at what he is currently doing. The Lea— _ the Lords  _ have been taking too much of the world’s problems in the past months and to say that he didn't have anything to do with it would not just be an understatement but would be entirely wrong. These kids would recognize his plans and its quirks and nuances miles from it if they really want to. Steph looks at him, sighs, and quietly urges Cass not to mind them as the girl begins to turn all of her attention to playing around with the food on her plate, jaw clenched and the line of her shoulder tense.

Duke finishes his dinner and folds his hand before his plate, listening intently. Alfred steps closer, asking if  _ master Duke would like anything else? _ To which Duke answers with a small shake of his head, smiling in gratitude to Alfred's doting.

"It seems like the League has taken the habit of butting their heads in conversations they weren't asked or needed to. What do Superman, Wonder Woman, Martian Manhunter, Hawkgirl, or the Green Lantern even know about diplomatic affairs pertaining to sovereignty over islands scattered in some ocean? Even more so when the country named by the International Court as the rightful owner wasn't even present in such diplomatic talks?"

A hum, and Bruce nods his head a bit. That's true; there are diplomatic talks on issues surrounding the West Philippine Sea, and yet no representative from the Philippines is present. His suspicions that the once called Sleeping Giant is now taking over its neighboring countries must have been true.

Dick chuckles again, moves again in his seat, reaches for something, looks at anywhere else but Bruce. "You mean the Lords?"

Barbara turns her glare to him, causing him to raise his hands in surrender before addressing Bruce. But  _ still _ refusing to look directly at him, asking his question to his food instead.

"Are you not with them because Alfred forced you to stay and have dinner with us? Not that Alfred has forced you into doing many things." Jason sneers at the question, pouring himself a glass of orange juice before reaching for the blueberry cheesecake he first offered to Cass and taking a slice for himself when she finished taking one. 

He nudged her when she just played with the food. "Eat or I'll take that." Cass rolls her eyes.

Bruce continues eating, looking for all the world like he wasn’t asked an important question. This has got to be the most intense and longest dinner Bruce has ever had, and he's pretty sure it's barely been thirty minutes. He wonders if anyone at the Asylum is planning to escape tonight. At the very least, that will give all of them a reason to escape this suffocating room.

"The question still stands," Barbara says matter-of-factly. "That's two out of a hundred I'm sure all of us have tonight."

A moment of silence passes. And Bruce's mouth feels dry around the water he is slowly drinking.

"Father?"

"Yes."

"Yes?" Steph raises her eyebrow, sounding incredulous and borderline scandalized at the admission. Cass finally looks up from her plate again, her gaze hard and scrutinizing—shuffling through each of her siblings before landing on Bruce.

"Yes, the Lords have been taking more and more of the world's problems into their plate but they can manage. And yes, I'm not with them because this dinner has already been scheduled before all of those businesses were."

"Told you it's Lords now."

"You mean raids?" Jason retorts, and he meets Bruce's eyes with his own proud ones. And Bruce realizes how much he hates seeing those eyes hardening with hate when speaking to him, that mouth ready to engage him verbally and punch his currently unveiled insecurity, curling into a sneer or a mocking smile whenever directed to him. "The capes of the Watchtower sure are enjoying blowing joints all around the planet trying to make a statement. What's next, world domination?" He takes a mouthful of cheesecake, "Didn't think I'd live again just to experience fascism headed by such renowned heroes. Let alone you. But then again, I shouldn't have been surprised."

Bruce sets his glass down, "The raids were to make sure there are no traces of the drug I was able to take from Bane's hands in the streets."

"What can this drug do?" Tim asks, and Bruce is sure the hands he is hiding on his lap beneath the table are clenched into fists. "More than twenty years in Gotham have taught you that the extreme violence and hunger for control being exhibited by the League is not always the answer.  _ You _ have taught us that too. What exactly is in that drug that merits this type of action from  _ the _ Justice League?"

" _ Justice Lords,"  _ Dick mockingly corrects, nudging at Jason to give him a slice of the cheesecake.

"It can kill civilians, potentially harm metahumans including Clark." Bruce leans back in his seat, steepling his fingers and setting them on the edge of the table instead of clenching them into fists. He meets Tim's stare, anger and disappointment simmering in his son's usually calculating blues. "It's capable of raising one's libido to such levels that will make them feel like they're going to die unless they immediately have sex. Which, they probably will. It risks civilians being hurt by metas when they weren't even in control of their faculties. Kryptonite traces also suggest the possibility of radiation poisoning. No magic was present. Just pure science."

"And a vaccine can't be made?" Barbara almost shouts. "Even if no civilians were harmed by your actions, criminals are being killed offhandedly. Bruce, they are people too! With families, with lives they're trying to live no matter how fucked up it is in front of the law. Who are you and these Justice Lords to play gods and trample on human lives?"

"Babs, please calm down," Dick says, sending Bruce a  _ look _ and moving to stand—to sit closer to Barbara—before stopping in his tracks at the sight of her murderous glare. He slumps back in his seat, hands clenched into fists before relaxing them again.

"A lasting and concrete solution was discussed during the meeting instead of a vaccine. I've spent almost three weeks testing out samples, and couldn't come up with one—"

"No offense, B, but you're not the only one in this world smart enough to make one," Tim interjects, running a hand through his hair and heaving a deep sigh. "The League is supposed to have plenty of resources, a lot of contacts that can help with this. Hell, even I could have helped. And yet nobody asked. Instead, you all just ran around—"

"You all just ran around burning hideouts of nobodies with laser beams, tying criminals up who don't even have anything to do with this drug with that glowing, golden rope and neon green shit. Probably mind-fucked them too to get answers to your questions." Jason shrugs, one hand on his stomach and heaving a contented sigh. "Thanks for the delicious food, Al."

Alfred bows. "Of course, master Jason."

Steph snorts, her spoon hitting the plate a little too hard, "And what, pray tell, does this _lasting_ _and concrete solution_ even mean?" Her glass hits the table a little too hard, the juice nearly staining the pristine white table cloth decorated with threads of red and gold. "Isn't that just synonymous with intimidation, coercion, and blatant _murder_ at this point?"

Bruce bounces his children's words around his head, the bubbling doubt in his chest simmering to a constant boil that he is sure will erupt with pressure later on. He didn't say anything, didn't raise a firm hand to question the actions of his fellow heroes. He merely accepted, justified their actions with his own poorly constructed lies that slowly marred the principle he has lived by, slowly but surely tearing down the foundations of the Mission. The same principle that he and Clark and the rest of the Justice League have upheld even before they banded together. All because he couldn't immediately decide if this action is right or wrong. When in fact, it shouldn't have been a question of such duality in the first place. When in fact, it shouldn't have been asked at all when they have known and lived by the answer most of their lives.

How cruel, he thinks, that a single death among their ranks has turned them into the very people that—no matter how much they may seem to hate—they never laid a single murderous hand upon before.

Except on that day. On that day when Luthor practically begged Superman to kill him with his provocations.

Bruce carefully places his utensils down, eyes tightly closed. He could almost feel the heat in his skin, piercing through layers of kevlar and under armor. The screams—loud, piercing, and agonizing. The sight of burning flesh—that when alone, Bruce imagines what hell must be like in those holy scriptures. And the smell—he stifles a shiver down his spine—the smell that for weeks, even the rotten odor of the Gotham sewers couldn’t manage to push out of his system and his mind.

"Is this because the Flash died?" Damian asks, his voice echoing in the room as all movements suddenly cease; even Alfred stops midway in attending to Bruce. Damian glares into his plate, hands trembling on top of the table. "The Flash died and all of the  _ heroes  _ at the Watchtower couldn't cope so they began bullying the very people they swore to protect. As though when every single one of you entered this job you didn't think—not for one second—that it will cost you your life sooner rather than later." His right hand hits the table once, causing the dishes and utensils to rattle, his glare piercing daggers into Bruce's already shattered armor. As if he ever wore one around his children. "I am disappointed by this, father. Disgusted, even. That the very people who taught me that I could be better than what I was taught during my childhood are doing  _ exactly _ —if not  _ worse _ —than that."

And then Damian abruptly stands, his chair hitting the floor with a loud  _ bang! _ "Tell your fellow Lords, that I will not yield under such hypocrisy." And then he was off, walking straight to where the front door is. And somehow, Bruce is glad that Damian stood up like that. The comfort of knowing that he did him right by teaching him to stand firm in his beliefs in front of such formidable foes allows him to relax albeit slightly in his seat. 

Cass turns to her plate again, pushing at the food with her fork.

"Bruce," Duke begins, looking like he did during the first couple of months of him living in the manor—unsure, terrified, feeling misplaced in a home where everyone seems so sure of what they are, who they are, and where they should be. And Bruce thinks he should be the one feeling that. He should be the one feeling the disappointment that will later dwindle to nothing because they are his kids, his sons and daughters that he has sworn to protect. He should be the one feeling unsure and terrified and out of place in a home whose members  _ know  _ who they are, where they stand in the grand scheme of things, and most importantly,  _ what they stand for. _ "Bruce, please tell us you have a better reason."

The front door slams closed and Bruce belatedly realizes that Alfred must have followed Damian out as he hears the butler's faint steps trudging back to the dining hall. He mulls over Duke’s question, wondering if there is even a right answer to it. Even without Barbara glowering at him and urging him to answer beside Steph, he knows he should. But he just doesn’t know  _ how. _

And then Cass is standing, her plate now empty, she pushes her chair back under the table and acknowledges Alfred with a smile. She walks towards Bruce with a calm look painting her features and Bruce has a passing thought that he probably deserves getting punched by one of them, if not  _ all  _ of them; and Cass is certainly up to any job including that.

But she only hugs Bruce, wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing the side of her head against his. Bruce blinks as he feels his daughter tucks herself against him. Slowly, he raises an arm and pats her back, inhaling deeply as he closes his eyes. 

"We know you can do better than this."  And then just as quickly, Cass is pulling away. She kisses him on the forehead before giving him a small, encouraging smile and turning to flick Dick's ear. 

"I guess we'll see you around then." Duke smiles, following Cass in hugging and thanking Alfred before going through the same way Damian did.

A sigh. "I'm not even done eating yet." Steph groans, standing up and plucking the half-eaten slice of blueberry cheesecake from her plate. "Gotta go drive them and make sure they have a place to stay. Thanks for dinner."

The remaining food on Bruce's plate is quickly finished. If only to appease Alfred and join his sons who are still eating. Barbara is tweaking something on the tech in her wheelchair, silent. But Bruce knows her tirade is not yet over. Far from it.

Bruce looks up and meets Barbara's gaze. "I don't know exactly what you want me to say."

"Bruce," Barbara sighs, raising her hand to massage her temple. "We don't expect you to know everything, nor do we expect you to _ tell  _ us everything. You're Batman, for fuck's sake! I bet you don't even tell Alfred everything. Superman probably doesn't know you keep Kryptonite in your belt or that there's a backdoor in the Watchtower system only accessible to you. On some level, I do understand what's happening with the League. If somebody kills dad, or anyone of you— _ of course,  _ I'd be mad too. To the point that I'll think of doing the same to whoever did it." She pauses, her gaze flickering to Dick who is looking at anywhere but her. "But I won't. Because we're not that kind of people. We were  _ never _ that kind of people."

She maneuvers her wheelchair towards him and lays a hand on his arm. "If ever you need help—please Bruce,  _ please.  _ Don't doubt that you can count on us. We're family. And you, you've always been there for us. Let us be here with you too."

A moment of silence and Bruce feels as though the three boys are looking at him for confirmation. Confirmation of what? That they are family? Bruce only knows a handful of things for certain in his life and that is one of those. He knows too that he will always be there for his children, to whatever extent of his capabilities, and more if they ask him to. He would not dare to expect anything from them for himself, no. They have lives they ought to live, and he has decided long ago that he will not let them get caught up in his mistakes—or in his issues—ever again.

Even if the universe doesn't agree with him, because they're the bats, and if one suffers—all of them have to as well. For the nth time that night, he sighs.

And that might not be the reply Barbara is looking for, but she leaves with one last pat on Bruce's arm. "I'll see you boys around." Alfred sees her out, their casual conversation fading into the background and enveloping the four men in silence.

The chair squeaks as Jason stands, raising his hands in mock surrender and shaking his head. He grins. "Good talk."

Tim just rolls his eyes at his antics, while Dick attempts to kick him before he gets too far. And Bruce almost smiles, ignoring the vibrations of his phone in his pocket.

"I agree though," Jason says, standing by the doorway of the dining hall. "That you're better than this. I won't pretend that we are morally better than anyone else or some other fucked up shit. Nor will I pretend to know why you're not doing anything, I like to think none of us actually know. But I agree too that you can count on us. If you manage to get off your high horse and ask your family for help."

With his gaze staring emptily on the seat Jason has vacated, he nods slightly. Even if Jason couldn't see. 

Dick grins, slouching in his seat as he stares at Jason's departing form. "If we're playing UNO right now, I would have pulled a reverse card on you."

"B," Tim calls, making Bruce look up at him. With his hands now on top of the table, and the corners of his lips no longer curving down into a frown, Bruce allows himself to loosen a bit. Their words no longer make him feel judged, unwanted over something he does not have full control over. Instead, they make him feel like he could be better, that he  _ should  _ be better. And that no matter what, he's fully capable of it. Whenever necessary, whatever might happen, they are family. 

"If you still have some samples, maybe I could look over it? There's some new stuff from the R&D, it might help." 

Bruce nods. "You know where to find them."

"I'll be sure to update you." Tim stands, pushing his chair back under the table too and thanking Alfred. They hug, and Bruce has an inkling the tugging in his chest must really be his heartstrings being pulled too much tonight.

That leaves him and his eldest, who is fidgeting in his seat. It makes Bruce want to smile, how he never seems to be able to stay in place like the performer he is. 

Alfred enters the room, clearing his throat. "Sirs, if I may clear the table?"

"Alfred! Yes, uh..." Dick trails off, standing up and helping Alfred with the plates. Bruce stands too, following his son's actions until Alfred pins them both with his stoic gaze. A very telling expression of how they are just making things harder for him with what they are doing. 

Bruce nods, "I'll get out of your way. Thank you for dinner, Alfred."

"Thanks, Alfie." 

"Of course, master Bruce, master Dick."

He watches as Dick walks away without looking back at him. And Bruce hates how the resentment he feels tastes like bile at the back of his throat, threatening to spill everything he just ate. Watching his son—or any of his children for that matter—walk away from him will never be easy, no matter how nonchalant and blank his face might look. The sound of Dick’s fading footsteps weighing him down and stopping him from moving.

Alfred is moving efficiently behind him, clearing the table while resolutely ignoring him. With a sigh, Bruce drags his feet towards the grand staircase and up to his room. He doesn’t even spare the open door of his study a glance, the grandfather clock chiming mockingly at him. And each step up the stairs feels heavier, like gravity pulling harder at him. Bruce shakes his head.

A stream of light flows into the first door of the corridor leading to his bedroom; Dick’s room. Muffled footsteps can be heard from the opened door, accompanied by shuffling like there’s stuff getting moved around. Another muffled thump, and then a sigh.

Swallowing the lump at his throat, Bruce takes a step forward, then another, and another, trying with all his might not to turn his head to glance at his son once he reaches the open door; the light bathing him—exposing him.

“Hey, B,” Dick greets, eyes closed as he lies on his back at the bed. “‘S great in here. No dust. I don’t need to cough every time I move stuff around.” He chuckles, letting the hand bunching the front of his shirt to fall beside him, open, the soft light catching on the faint scars decorating his arms and hands. Bruce wonders how thick the callouses have grown on those strong hands, how sturdier it would be grasping his, how vastly different it would be from the hand he held all those years ago when Dick finally called him ‘dad’.

“You could hire a housekeeper,” Bruce replies, following Dick’s lead at a normal conversation even if he remains stuck by the door—not even leaning on the frame, not even facing the room and his son fully. Half of his body bathed in light while the other remained in the shadows. It does not escape his attention that Dick has not invited him in yet, and he chooses not to dwell on that fact, not right now. “Or maybe dedicate every other weekend to clean and rest, I don’t know.”

Dick laughs, a deep melodious sound. But lacking its usual mirth, lacking the lightness that usually accompanies his laugh, capable of lifting the tension in a room—like some kind of magic, or some natural Grayson charm. 

"Yeah," Dick agrees, sighing the word out. "You wouldn't know." And there's something in his tone that catches Bruce out of guard, something in it that scares him because it hurts.

_ You wouldn't know. _

"How's everyone anyway?" Dick turns to face him, face blank, features carefully smoothened out to reveal nothing. Like his voice, dripping with just the right amount of interest so as to not sound entirely monotonic. It unnerves him on some level that Dick could've learned this from him. "Big Blue, Di, J'onn... I heard Hal is back."

"Fine. They're fine."

"And you?"

"Fine."

Dick looks at him and sighs. The fight seemingly flowing out of his body as he breathes out. Dick looks at him, and Bruce has a fleeting thought of  _ oh shit I think my son is about to cry, what do I do? _

_ You wouldn't know. _

"B—" Dick huffs, shaking his head as he sits up and leans on his knees. He looks at his hands before he looks up. "I guess I just wanted you to know that I still think you're my dad. I mean—"

He watches him shrug, pausing and blinking rapidly down at his hands. And Bruce thinks his eyes have comically widened at hearing that word again. Spoken almost casually, but so, so heavily. 

"Obviously right now, with what you've been doing, you're obviously not upholding your promise to be a better person so you can be a better father to us. And like—"

Bruce grits his teeth as he listens to Dick ramble, as he watches his eldest son fight his tears back. He's disappointed them. He's disappointed Alfred and his children. His children are disappointed at him. Again. And maybe he really wasn't fit to be their father, not when he keeps doing this. He already puts them in danger every single night. Even in daylight, even in galas and soirées. Being their father endangers them from Gotham and it's vultures. Now it also endangers them from heroes.

"—that's the thing isn't it?" Dick looks up at him, eyes shining with unshed tears. "You've always been trying to be better, for us. So, why don't you—” He takes a deep breath as a stray tear falls, and Bruce wants so badly to wipe it away. Feels the same fierce protectiveness he felt when he first saw Dick crying after his parents died, inconsolable. "Bruce, why don't you try to be better now?"

Silence stretches around them, and the couple of steps separating the father and son seems so far—too far and too daunting for Bruce to traverse. No matter how much he swings himself across the buildings of Gotham every night, no matter how many planets he has traveled on, or how high the height he freely falls from during battles—no matter all of those, the nine steps separating him from his son is too far. And he's rooted so hard to where he's standing, he feels he might just break if he moves.

"Dick—"

And then Dick's phone lights up from his pocket, buzzing, and seemingly urgent. Dick pulls the device out, frowns at the caller ID, and then he's picking the call up. And then he's looking at Bruce; he looks at him and Bruce thinks his son is trying to give him a smile but he can't. He can't and it's Bruce's fault.

He shudders, watching Dick take a deep breath before speaking, phone pressed firmly against his ear; his grip on the phone tight enough to turn his knuckles white. Bruce meets his gaze and hopes Dick sees what he's failing to say.

_ I'm sorry. _

That night, Dick quickly leaves the manor after his phone call. He does not say goodbye to him, only to Tim and Alfred. He does not say goodbye to him, because the Bat is already out haunting and prowling the streets of Gotham.

That night, the Bat returns to his kingdom. The whites on his uniform no longer present, the Bat is back but he is not hunting as the people fears he would. No.

That night, the Bat is back and he is apologizing.

**_July 17, 20xx_ **

**Sixty-seven days before the take-over**

"Look, Spooky," Hal begins the one night he was allowed in Gotham and into the cave. "I'm just here to say goodbye. Maybe say I'm sorry too. I don't know, you can never tell with me.  _ I _ can never tell with me." He pauses at his gesturing and places a hand on his hip, angling his head to get a better look at Bruce under the cowl. "Can you?"

Bruce grunts, adjusting the microscope. He's looking through the samples of the vaccine he and Tim have been making. They need to finish it soon. Especially since Dick and Jason have good reason to believe there's still some of the drug left in the streets; simmering below the surface. Even if it's only similar like Steph believes it to be, they would need something to combat it in any way. 

He doesn't like to think about what could happen to his kids if they ever got those abominations into their systems.

"That totally means you can." Hal slumps. Well, as much as he can slump while standing up. The ring glows and then he's moving to sit on a chair, "Took the liberty since it looks like you're not gonna offer me a seat."

Bruce smirks, fully aware that Hal can see him.

"Ugh. You're so mean, Batsy. Meany Batsy, ha!"

He rolls his eyes this time. "At least think of something new."

"Why, Harley ever teased you with that one?"

"Sure."

"Damn." Hal grins. "Anyway. I'm here, you're here. I don't wanna talk shop, you probably wanna talk shop. So! Without talking shop, what do you want to talk about?"

"I want…" Bruce trails off, making a note on the tablet to his right. Lucius has sent him a message. "To talk about you leaving, so I can have some peace and quiet."

He hears Hal stand up and walk, glad that for once he listened to him the first time when not on the battlefield. "Oh, I'm leaving alright. Like, when I leave Gotham, I'd go straight to Oa." He stands at the end of the table Bruce is working at, leaning his hips on it as he crosses his arms. Bruce rolls his eyes.

"Hrn. Safe travels, then."

"Rude." 

"So I've been told."

"Anyone ever told you that you're a good conversationalist?"

"Sure."

“I will not be returning for a long time, longer than usual...” Bruce lets him arrange his thoughts. To say that Hal was the most affected was an understatement. The man had found a certain level of camaraderie and acceptance in Barry—and then with Wally, something that he hadn’t had with anyone else in the League. Their friendship always awaited him every time he returned to Earth. The same friendship he still cradles in his heart whenever he leaves for the stars. "Listen, Spooky—”

Bruce hums. “—I am.”

Hal rolls his eyes. “I know, it’s been hard on you too. You and Barry, sometimes you share one brain cell—don’t punch me for that I know you have a lot of brain cells, but you know what I mean—and that you just  _ get  _ each other, you know? You get  _ along  _ when you actually act nice.” He laughs, not the loud and boisterous ones Bruce has associated with his annoyance to the man; but a short, clipped one—downcast. “And you  _ do  _ care about Wally. I guess what I’m trying to say is that, if you want to talk, if whatever is happening overwhelms you or there’s something in the Watchtower that you don’t like. You can tell me. And I don’t know, maybe I can try to help.”

Silence stretches between them as Bruce continues peering into the sample, unseeing. The tablet pings again with another message. He ignores it. “Does it bother you?”

“What does?”

“You know what I’m talking about.”

Hal sighs, looking into the dark ceilings of the cave; Bruce recalls that one time Hal asked him if he knows exactly how many bats are living there with him. “I wasn’t there when—you know, the League snapped, Supes snapped, you snapped. Wait, did you snap too? I hope not, I imagine it would be more… violent. No offense. Anyway, that just means that I wouldn’t know the level of ‘bother’ you may be talking about. But yeah, I am. To some level.”

"Is that why you’re leaving so soon?"

“Partly, yes. And also because I see him on my usual haunts. Makes me realize how tied to the hip we are whenever I’m home. Even the runway reminds me of him.” He sighs again, lips turning into something like a smile. Reminiscent. “Remember that one time he and Clark raced from the Ferris’ runway and back?”

“Carl Ferris wasn’t amused.”

“He’s retired, anyway. Whatever. What I’m trying to say is that, yes, it bothers me. No, it’s not the only reason. I’m leaving for my mental health, and also because I’m actually needed at Oa; gotta get that new assignment you know.”

The bats squeak above them, the sound of their flapping wings filling another bout of silence that Bruce no longer knows how to fill with his own words. Finding the answer to the question to be more than enough, he nods and focuses his attention back to his examination. He lets Hal stay longer than he usually does before. Just standing there and looking, remembering the handful of times he was ever allowed there—hovering after speedsters. 

“Have a safe trip.”

A hand pats his shoulder, “You know how to call me, I’ll keep the line open for you.”

Five weeks later, the  _ Daily Planet  _ publishes an article on him as the new owner. During his visit on the same day, Lois is welcoming, if not stiff. While the rest of the staff just seem happy with him as the new owner, a couple of them are dubious at best considering the controversies that always surround Brucie; although, it can’t be denied that he’s a good businessman. At the end of the day, Bruce thinks that Lois recognizes some of the good the Lords’ efforts are producing but is still adamantly against the means. He wonders when he’s going to speak the same. Perhaps soon. He hopes it's going to be soon.

Clark is sitting on the bed beside him as he reads, writing an article on the Lords’ statement regarding the drugs specifically made to render metahumans rabid and useless. Diana had made quite an appearance earlier, her dominance and utter disgust at it lingering even after hours of seeing her in person or on live TV.

Even though the vaccine has already been distributed before the first case happened three weeks ago, knowing what it can do  _ hypothetically _ is different from experiencing it. The meeting held just pondering over Arsenal’s report and Green Arrow’s indignance and anger on the existence of the drug was exhausting enough for Bruce to cut his patrol short that night. Black Canary just letting her own anger simmer in silence during the whole thing was a small blessing.

But the drugs weren’t the only problem. There were weapons, ammunition. All geared towards suppressing the superhuman community. The underground criminal network is trying to move ahead of them and it's even at a pace that makes the Bat work harder. Whispers of government organizations working to keep them on a tighter leash have already reached the Watchtower. And the Martian Manhunter is bothered enough to investigate himself, all while Hawkgirl keeps up appearances on diplomatic talks—occasionally accompanied by either Diana, John, or Clark. They never come to these things together, keeping the distance as if avoiding to scare an animal.

If the hero community ever felt like they are not welcome in this world, Bruce has a feeling they are about to be slapped in the face that that feeling is indeed, quite true.

He wonders where the hell it all went wrong. Even if, all this time, the answer has been sitting at the back of his mind.

The sky darkens as the rain starts to fall. He should check and make sure the kids didn’t go to patrol. They would have been easier to stop if they’re still living at the manor, but he gets it. He too would like to be far from a place where a bunch of metahumans capable of leveling the planet might frequent, especially when said metahumans seem to be close to doing it day by day.

He stifles a sigh he is sure Clark already heard from the depths of his lungs as he reaches for his laptop. The pen continues to scratch on the paper.

“Lois was nicer than I expected she would be today.” 

“You mean nicer to you than she is to me now?”

“Yeah, I’ve always been more charming than you are.”

Clark chuckles. “I’m glad she’s still Lois, you know. The same Lois Lane when I first stepped on the  _ Planet.  _ She’ll probably kick my ass if she manages to look at me.”

“She’s still mad?” Bruce tosses the laptop to the floor, moving to lie back down, arms crossed behind his head.

“Hm, and disappointed. I don’t think she will ever be not mad. Nor will she ever be not disappointed.”

“What are you planning to do about it?”

“I don’t know, Bruce.” Clark sighs, the scratching of his pen stops. “But we—us at the Watchtower—we’re doing good. I think.”

Lightning cracks and thunder rumbles, lighting up and shaking the room. Bruce just hums, and falls asleep—hoping that he too, could say that they are doing good as he feels a pair of soft lips kissing his forehead goodnight.

The following morning, Bruce is seated at his office in the Wayne Tower.  _ Gotham Gazette  _ and  _ Daily Planet  _ are waiting for him along with his coffee. The computer boots to his left. Lucius sent him an email seven minutes ago.

He picks the  _ Planet  _ up _.  _ The Justice Lords is front page again.

**_Justice Lords to continue to ‘uphold peace, and will not be threatened’_ **

_ Wonder Woman on a statement shared Tuesday evening to the world... _

_ …warns all criminals, even government organizations... _

_ …that the Justice Lords will continue to uphold peace... _

_ …Their resolve will not be shaken by threats… _

He stops reading half-way through and calls his secretary to cancel his meeting at Metropolis later in the afternoon. 

**_September 01, 20xx_ **

**Twenty-nine days before the take-over**

J’onn confirms that a party will be held at the  _ Metropolis Central Library  _ on the fifth of September where information on the plans to suppress the Lords will be exchanged via an encrypted system discreetly hidden at the lower level of the building where food is going to be prepared.

Invited to the gala are politicians, the rich and famous, and everyone else picked to either be a part of the plan or a diversion. The list of journalists allowed in the event is also discussed in the meeting; and it wasn’t even curated, judging by a gossip ‘columnist’ being given a free pass. It seems like this party will be a free-for-all for the press. Bruce is sure they are going to have a field day if someone actually unearths something news-worthy.

But then again, if Lois and Clark are going to be there, there might as well be. Lois seems to have the superpower of smelling a worthy lead from all around the world.

And then the fact that the event will be held in a place whose renovations were funded by Luthor before his death also did not escape them. 

Bruce Wayne is invited. His name is there, right on top of the list; he is even allowed to bring any—or, if he wants, all—of his children.  _ Ah, of course, Bruce, you do have wonderful and smart kids fit to attend a gala such as this _ , Bruce can already hear the host say when they inevitably cross paths and shake hands. 

And then of course, as Bruce Wayne, it did not escape Lord Batman that there is  _ a lot _ that the Justice Lords are expecting of him.

The drive to the party is uneventful, evening news blaring through the speakers in the car — a 1957 Aston Martin with wide seats and a trunk concealing his suits and gadgets. He receives a text from Clark once. Unread.

Valets and a horde of press await him upon his arrival. And he can already feel the flashes of cameras against his eyes even when he’s still several meters away from the venue. A quick scan shows most, if not all, of the guests have arrived and all of the media has settled. The  _ Daily Planet  _ parked like a beacon beside the  _ Gotham Gazette.  _ Like twins competing with each other.

He doesn’t think twice about stepping out of the vehicle, giving his eyes a small reprieve by blinking longer than normal before the cameras begin flashing again.

The comms in his ear cackles and John’s deep voice speaks.  _ “All clear. J’onn has been in position for a good two hours now.” _

_ “Fashionably late as always, Mr. Wayne,”  _ J’onn greets through the link, and there’s a confident mirth in his tone. Like he knows they are going to succeed. The leech sits heavily in his pocket.

Bruce flashes a winning smile to the cameras, giving a wave here and there, nodding to a semi-familiar reporter all the while keeping an eye out for Clark.

“Mr. Wayne, your arms seem empty tonight.” 

“Not for long, I’m sure of that,” Bruce, no,  _ Brucie  _ replies, a sly smirk now on his lips. And as the bunch of reporters laughs, he makes his way towards the doors where a bunch of  _ vultures  _ dressed in suits and flowing gowns awaits him.

One by one, he identifies all the men he shakes hands with while John and Shayera confirm through the comms who could potentially be in on the plans; even the women clinging to his arms or giving him the eye are all being identified and further researched at the cave and Watchtower. J’onn nods at him, standing a couple of meters away and dressed as one of the event’s hired security personnel.

_ “Master Bruce,”  _ Alfred begins amid the loud clicking of keys on his end.  _ “All guests identified, and confirmed to be on the master list for tonight. At least three quarters of them fits the bill.” _

A well-timed hum, directed at Alfred and to the businessman and politician in front of him; he has his back to the main entrance which J’onn has been guarding closely. 

“Well, it’s nice to finally have you out of Gotham after so long, right?”

“Indeed, Bruce. You should hop the harbors more often.”

Bruce smiles, “Well, I thought I’d come drink you dry.”

They laugh, and Bruce has just ensured that Brucie’s alcoholic habits are once again instilled in people’s minds. And if they conveniently forget that despite the  _ reputation  _ Brucie Wayne has, he still appears to be a competent CEO of his company. Well, more for him and the Mission.

“Mister Wayne. Mister Wayne,” A familiar voice says, growing firmer at each try to get his attention. And Bruce somehow realizes that that is just how it is in their relationship; Clark backs away when wounded, only to come back stronger. “Mister Wayne, Clark Kent,  _ Daily Planet. _ ”

“ _ Daily Planet, _ ” Bruce stares, allowing Clark’s hand to hang between them for a second too long before taking it, gentler than he usually would. “I’m tempted to say  _ ‘do I own this one or is that the other guy?’  _ but we both that’s no longer going to work.”

Clark smiles, and Bruce feels himself doing the same. Fully aware of the crowd among them, the whispering and giggles of the women to their right, the toast to success of the men a little behind him to the left, and Jimmy Olsen—lingering a couple of steps behind Clark and torn between following him or Lois Lane.

“A lot of people are wondering about your continued support to the Justice Lords despite the circumstances—”

“The circumstances being, of course, them continuing to protect the planet and the citizens despite what happened to the Flash?” Bruce interjects, looking Clark up and down as he takes a step closer. “I don’t think my support would no longer require further explanations, don’t you think… Clark?”

A nod, and a tilt of his head to the stairs. "Some people do not share your opinions, Mr. Wayne."

As if in time to their conversation, the emcee walks to the stage, mic in one hand as she waves to the crowd. The politicians perk up, every single drop of their attention shifted from the power play they are exhibiting against one another to the stage. Oliver Queen is standing on the other side of the room, arms empty and beard trimmed, sending him and Clark a look.

Bruce and Clark drift apart as the speaker drones on. Freedom, oppressors, being more blessed than the others and using such blessings to help the unfortunate. The audience is enraptured. Diana refuses the drink offered to her then peers at him over her shoulder near the stage, unimpressed at what is going on.

Slowly, he walks the opposite direction the waiter with a full tray came from. “Alright, where am I going, Alfred?”

_ “Go past the elevator. Do a left. That’s right, must be,”  _ Alfred instructs. And Bruce sees Clark tilting his head as if to say he’s listening before he turns towards the stairs.  _ “It’s in the service corridor in the basement. Go down the stairs.” _

Bruce is on his way to the stairs when J'onn distracts Mercy from him and Clark distracts the columnist whose gaze is following his every move.

_ "Go to the stairs. You saw them on your way in. Down the stairs."  _

Waiters expertly avoid him as he strolls to his destination, making sure his demeanor isn’t the least bit suspicious; acting like he owns the place.  _ "All right. You got the kitchen to your right. Do a left." _

He moves as instructed, ignoring the live news blaring on the kitchen TV.  _ "Right in front of you. That's where you want to be." _

The leech sits heavily in his pockets.

He opens the doors to the sight of servers upon servers stacked on top of each other. All transmitting, protected with thick fiberglass. He pads straight to the wires on the side and attaches the leech. The device boots, connects, and then he’s on his way out as somebody on the comms begins to speak again.

_ "Connected and transmitting. Wonder—"  _

J'onn interrupts,  _ "Bruce, Mercy is on her way to you."  _

The door closes with a soft  _ click!  _ behind him just as Mercy steps on the last flight of stairs, looking at him suspiciously as she chats up one of the waiters.

She gives the waiter a nod who promptly leaves them alone, and turns to him, "May I help you, Mister Wayne?" The commotion in the kitchen continues.

Bruce loosens his posture even more, letting a playful smile grace his lips as he makes an act of looking around. "I just—I thought the bathroom was down here. I must have—" He smirks and shakes his head, "That last martini is two too many, I think."

A beat of silence passes between them and Bruce is sure that she doesn’t buy it. Not that it matters, he was given an invitation and if he knows that the room exists then to them that means that he is a potential ally.

Bruce proceeds as planned, but he is sure by now that they will get nothing but crumbs from those servers.

"Men's rooms are upstairs." She smiles in return.

"Great, I'm okay." They walk together back to the stairs until Mercy is stopped by a couple of men in suits and their plus-ones. "I like those shoes." Bruce winks at her before disappearing through the crowd.

_ "Four minutes, Diana," _ Shayera informs through the comms. 

The speech continues. "The bittersweet pain among men is having knowledge without power, but that is going to change soon..." Bruce shuts the mayor off as he heads towards the bar that Diana is now vacating, giving him a nod before disappearing into the crowd.

"Mister Wayne." Lois extends her hand, her calculating gaze focused solely on him.

Bruce kisses the back of her hand, hyper-aware of Jimmy Olsen and his camera a couple of steps behind her. “Miss Lane.”

“Oh please, I’m your employee. You address all your employees so formally?”

“They deserve nothing less, of course.”

Lois merely hums, and Bruce can’t help but feel like he’s being indulged. Shaking his head, he quickly downs the whiskey served to him before Lois arrived. She stares at him as though she can see past the act. Bruce shrugs.

“What can I tell you tonight, Miss Lane?”

“Why don’t we start,” Lois trails off, making an act of pulling her notebook and pen out. “On your continued support of the Justice League?”

Bruce raises his eyebrows and tilts his head. Equally indulging her. “I can tell you...”

_ “Transfer is completed.” _

_ “I have the device. I’m no longer needed here, am I?” _

_ “No, Diana. Thank you.” _

“...that it’s actually good for business.” Bruce grins, letting the wolfish businessman out. “Wayne Enterprises holds a lot of subsidiaries, and supporting superheroes provides easy advertisement. It’s almost like we don’t need to advertise a new alcoholic drink so long as that one Green Lantern is seen buying it.” Lois stares at him, eyes clearly unimpressed but features trained to look pleasant to ensure the conversation flows. Leaning closer, Bruce makes it as though he is whispering something important only for her ears. “Or if Green Arrow is ever seen taking some for himself after preventing a convenience store robbery.”

He pulls away, canting his hip to the right as he leans on the bar with his elbow, fully aware of the appreciative gazes sent his way, and the glare Ollie is throwing at him — having probably heard what he just said. Gauging what Lois wants is proving to be challenging as their gazes meet again and she drops her smile altogether.

“The League conducted raids a couple of months ago, all the way from Asia to America, in search of a drug that they claim to be harmful to civilians and metahumans. A week has passed since Wonder Woman’s  _ daunting  _ speech.” Lois tips her chin up, challenging _.  _ “I’m sure that is good marketing material. I’m also sure that there are a lot of drugs in the streets that harm civilians and yet there is no international attempt made by metas to stop the trade.”

Bruce accepts the newly filled glass of whiskey and raises the drink to his lips, meeting Lois’ gaze over the rim of the glass. “And this concerns me how, Miss Lane?”

“You tell me, Mister Wayne.” She grins, and there’s something in it that tells Bruce this is  _ the  _ Lois Lane who is sharp enough to get secrets that can bring down an empire,  _ the  _ Lois Lane who tirelessly chases leads wherever it takes her,  _ the  _ Lois Lane who harvests the Pulitzer for awards whenever she finds something worthy. And this—this small space between them—will either bring Lois her next Pulitzer and bring down the Lords, or it will bring Bruce to a level of pursuing the Mission that he hasn’t dared reach before. 

He can almost hear Talia’s taunting words, whispered to him, her lips brushing against his jaw.  _ “You’re not strong enough, beloved. You are fully aware of what it will take to fully realize your mission, and yet—”  _ In Bruce’s memory, she pulls back, her green eyes daring him to prove her otherwise, her lips twisted into a smile filled with malice—  _ “And yet you will not do it.” _

The comms in his ear cackles, and he is sure Clark is staring at him instead of doing his damn job.  _ “Bruce, please. Don’t—” _

“Ah, I must say—” Bruce raises a hand as if to smoothen the sides of his hair and shuts off his comms instead— “I’ve never had the most patience with marketing.” 

“Why do you continue to support the  _ Justice Lords  _ knowing what Superman has done, and what they are currently doing?”

_ Ah,  _ Bruce almost smirks,  _ there it is.  _ The voice at the back of his mind telling him that they deserve the hate, the blatant questioning of their integrity, of their  _ intentions.  _ And after that voice earned the timbre of Alfred’s voice and each of his children’s, it now takes Lois’ too. 

“Miss Lane, did you know that when I was young I thought that the corporate world would eat me raw? I was prepared to face the reality that the business would be lost in my generation and that my ancestors would be incredibly disappointed in me wherever they are now,” Bruce says, the faint sound of ice hitting glass filling the silence as he lets the words simmer. Fully aware that it will not make sense with what he is going to say next, and somehow he is already sure that Lois will see through it. He wonders what she’s going to do.

“People base their actions and opinions on what they currently know, and it is never wrong to admit to having been speaking from a place of lesser information. We speak of these metahumans as though their existence and what they stand for is absolute. When in fact, it’s not. For several years now, we kept building an even more unequal society where we hold them on high pedestals. Completely, if not conveniently, ignoring the fact that they may have superpowers but they are humans too, and that the hubris us normal, everyday people have is probably shared by them too.”

Lois narrows her gaze at him. And he sees J’onn moving closer to him in his periphery, ready to intercept if he will ever need it.

“Sometimes we reach a compromise, other times we don’t,” Bruce continues. There is a disjoint in Brucie Wayne’s personality and the one he is exhibiting now, he is aware of it. But he is also aware that Lois Lane knows that Clark Kent and Superman are the same person; this here is not necessarily  _ reporter  _ Lois Lane, but Lois Lane who lost a friend, who lost a hero. All because of another death that seemingly changed their whole world completely. 

And as for Bruce, she doesn’t necessarily need to know that Bruce and Batman are the same. But she knows what Bruce has lost too, from the death of his parents, to Jason. Aware of how—if perhaps heroes have existed long ago—then the Bruce in front of her wouldn’t be the same, perhaps the events surrounding them wouldn’t be the same either.

“But it’s okay to speak from a place of lesser knowledge and change when you finally know better. What’s wrong is to stand firm knowing you’re already in the wrong.” Bruce smiles, shedding the serious persona, and loosening his stance. He takes a swig of the whiskey, savoring the burn in his throat. “At least that’s what my butler told me.” He smiles, eyes now playful to soften the blow of his words. And Lois stares at him knowingly.

“And where are you now, Mister Wayne?”

“A place of lesser knowledge, I’m afraid.” He pushes the now empty glass to the general direction of the barkeeper who deftly catches it. Bruce tips his head in acknowledgment. The unsaid lingering between them.  _ But I am not afraid to know and to change. _ “Miss Lane.”

Lois’ winning smile returns. The act is over. Only Lois is not leaving with answers that will allow her to build a concrete lead, but only feeling a little lighter about the circumstances perhaps. And Bruce too, is leaving slightly better, more aware of himself than he has been the past couple of months. “Thank you for your time, Mister Wayne.”

Quickly, he slips past the crowd and into the front of the venue, the valet nodding at him from afar. Not even two minutes later his car is in front of him, and the media are effectively held away from him too. He extends a generous tip, the tingling sensation of wanting out of this suit and into another nagging him.

The comms are only turned on when he’s a safe distance from the Library, from J’onn, from Diana, from  _ Clark.  _

_ “Good to hear back from you, Batman.”  _ John greets, his tone flat. Unimpressed. 

And if Bruce is any lesser of a man, he would’ve snapped. But he reigns himself in as Alfred greets him too.

_ “I certainly hope everything is well, master Bruce.” _

“It is, Alfred. Don’t worry.”

_ “We need you at the Watchtower, Batman. You need to see this,”  _ Diana says.  _ “You too Kal, J’onn.” _

_ “What is it, Diana?” _

_ “They got their hands on one of Luthor’s tech and are attempting to revive it,”  _ John replies.  _ “When they do, they will be able to jump across the multiverse.” _

_ “And probably find a ‘good’ Justice League who will help them eradicate us,”  _ Shayera finishes, and there’s a hint of anger in her voice that Bruce is unfamiliar with.

He listens to J’onn confirming his attendance at the Watchtower right away. The thrum of his car reflecting the thrill running through his veins. He steps harder on the accelerator.

_ “Bruce?”  _ Clark asks through a private connection.  _ “Are you okay?” _

The car revs through the bridge connecting Metropolis and Gotham, and Bruce rolls down the window to his side before replying. “I’m fine.”

_ “Okay.” _

“Those plans are dangerous.”

_ “It is. Bruce—” _

“They might let in more than they asked or planned for.”

_ “— well, yes. You’re right. And then we’ll take the brunt of their mistakes.” _

“And then we’ll have to save them,” Bruce says at the same time. “I’ll see you at the Watchtower.”

There’s a pause at the end of the line. But Bruce waits. He waits and hopes that they can still change despite what happened, despite what they did. He trusts Clark,  _ believes  _ in him with such certainty that eradicates all of his previous doubts. 

And at the back of his mind, he knows that he cares enough about Clark. He cares enough to pray to whoever is out there; pray for forgiveness, ask for redemption not for himself but for  _ him.  _ So that someday, they might come out of this alive, and better heroes than they’ve ever been before.

_ “I’ll see you, B.” _

**Author's Note:**

> aaaand enter the actual Justice Lords episode where Bruce changed the tides and attempts to right the wrongs the Justice Lords did, because as he said, it is wrong to remain firm with your decisions when you already know you're in the wrong. or something, idk sometimes I can't make up my thoughts about this. lol
> 
> anyway aaaa i hope u enjoy it! If u do, pls dont hesitate to leave kudos and/or comments! This is my first time writing the JLords... and well, they could be a lot, I'd love to hear/read more about them tho!
> 
> Link to this fic as inspired work is Aries' art posted here on ao3! Please give them some love too <3 
> 
> You can find me on twt as @completist_ and as queen---queer on tumblr! Thanks again, and let's enjoy the rest of the Superbat Big Bang 2020! Keep safe, minna-san!


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